That's good--that's good. By the way, Master Norbert, we're going to put you through your paces. How about this so-called "Ordeal," eh? Do you own up to it?

Norbert.

I'm proud to, Uncle. At least, no--not so very proud; for I've found out lately that it's all been said before, a thousand times better than I've said it.

Brachtmann.

And also by a member of the Conservative party?

Norbert.

Well--no--not exactly.

Brachtmann.

Ah--but that's the point.

Norbert.

I beg your pardon, Herr von Brachtmann, I thought truth was truth, no matter who uttered it.

Prince.

What is truth? said Pilate.

Norbert.

And washed his hands. We also wash our hands of many things, your Highness. I have even heard it said that the use of soap and water is the only thing that distinguishes us from the ma.s.ses. But no matter how much washing we do, we can't wash off the blood we have shed in the abuse of our cla.s.s-privileges.

Prince (_to_ Richard).

Very neatly parried. He has a good wrist.

Richard.

My dear Norbert, will you give your venerable parent a hearing? We have left far behind us many of what you call our "cla.s.s-privileges"; but their traditional spirit still survives. And that spirit, whether the modern world condemns it, or the middle-cla.s.ses make it ridiculous by aping it--that spirit is the safeguard of our order. Believe me, Norbert, we must stand or fall by it.

Norbert.

Then we must fall, father.

Richard.

Possibly--even probably. But meanwhile the one distinction we have left is the right to dispose of our lives. When a n.o.bleman of the Italian Renaissance, or a young blade of the court of Louis XIII., crossed the threshold of his house, he was never sure of re-entering it alive. That was what gave him his audacity, his splendid indifference to danger.

Today we no longer stake our lives so lightly; but the fact that they are ours to stake still gives its keenest edge to living.

The Others.

Hear! Hear!

Norbert.

My dear father, you have given us an admirable explanation of the personal view of death. But life is not a personal matter at all. You have said so often enough. Our lives belong to the ideals for which we fight, they belong to the state or to the race----

Kellinghausen.

And how about our personal sense of honour? What of that, Norbert? Are we to be forbidden to defend with our lives the few things we hold sacred on earth? May we no longer fall upon the scoundrel who a.s.sails them? You will hardly convince us of that, Norbert.

Richard.

Then again, Norbert, there may be cases--you are too young to have foreseen them, but they exist--where an honourable man may have done irreparable injury to another's honour. If he admits his guilt, and satisfaction is demanded of him, what is he to do? Is he to run away, or to shelter himself behind the law? The law, which was made to protect the honour of serfs! Should you expect that of him, Norbert?

Norbert.

If your man of honour admits his guilt, and is ready to pay the penalty, let him be his own judge.

Richard.

H'm----

Norbert.

But I beg your pardon, father; that is hardly the point. It was all very well for the aristocracy to make its own laws when it had the power to enforce them; but what is to become of its precious "cla.s.s-privileges" when the modern world laughs at them and the mob refuses to recognise them? When that day comes, I don't see what we can do but take shelter behind the law.

Kellinghausen.

I don't understand you, Norbert. Give us an instance.

Norbert.

Nothing easier, Uncle Michael. What do you propose to do with the scoundrel who has been insulting you in his electioneering speeches?

(_There is a startled movement among his listeners_.) You don't mean to challenge _him_, I suppose?

Kellinghausen.

What do you----?

Norbert.

Unless you treat the whole matter with silent contempt and I fancy you'll hardly do that it seems to me that a libel suit is the only alternative.

Kellinghausen.

Norbert--are you dreaming--or----

Norbert.

Why--Uncle Michael--didn't you know?